


oh brooklyn, brooklyn take me in

by danielmorgans



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, author apologises but author kind of likes this, i mean it's steve bucky kind of, its not very explicit but when is anything i write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2172024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danielmorgans/pseuds/danielmorgans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is always moving, so you’re not sure why you’re surprised when he turns up at your door in an army uniform, but you are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh brooklyn, brooklyn take me in

Sometimes Brooklyn seems blurry, wrapped up in a summer haze and nothing more than the sharp bite of fresh raspberries on your tongue. Nothing more than Bucky’s heavy weight pressed against your side, steady and familiar, but always moving. 

Always moving because Bucky never could sit still. It was something bone deep, something that kept his fingers tapping a beat against a sticky bar top, something that kept him pacing quick across the apartment while he told you a story. 

You thinks it’s a good way to define Bucky. A constant thrum. A never ending dance step. 

You think you like the dance step one best. There’s always been something about how he moved. Other people would call it dangerous, would say that boy moved like he had a knife in his pocket, but you know better. You know he always carries his knife in his left boot. Other people would call it dangerous, and maybe it is, but there’s a certain grace to it. A smoothness even back alleys in Brooklyn couldn’t beat out of him, no matter how much they tried. 

So Bucky is constant in that he never is. Always moving but he makes sure you’re two steps ahead, and he’s got your back. You don’t think you’d let anyone else do that. 

Bucky is always moving, so you’re not sure why you’re surprised when he turns up at your door in an army uniform, but you are. 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s strapped to a table in Austria when you find him, but his fingers are twitching idly at his sides and his eyes track slowly across the room. _He’s moving,_ you tell yourself, _he’s still alive._

He’s moving, even if the curl to his lip is a fraction too slow, even if he has to lean on you to walk. 

_He’s moving,_ you tell yourself, because this is Bucky. Because Bucky is always moving, is a constant thrum and you don’t know what to do if you can’t follow in the trail he leaves behind. 

 

 

 

 

 

They give you a team and you do the jobs that no one else wants, you do the things the government is denying and you compromise because this is war, because sometimes you have to sacrifice pieces of yourself and you’re okay with that, you are. You know it’s how this works. You’ve seen soldiers come home a little less than when they left. 

You understand, so you’re not sure why you’re surprised when you realise Bucky has given up pieces of himself. Got them beat out of him in training, in muddy trenches, on that table in Austria. 

You’re not sure why your world shifts just that little bit when you lie beside Bucky on a snowy mountaintop for two hours and he doesn’t move once. It’s a stillness that’s almost frightening, is completely foreign to what Bucky has always been to you. 

But then you go to a bar and his fingers drum on the wooden table top and his knee bumps lightly against yours in a familiar rhythm. 

He still moves, you realise, just in smaller ways.

 

 

 

 

 

There's a man with a gun wearing Bucky's face, a man you've followed halfway across Europe, a man you'd follow into the jaws of death. He doesn't move unless he needs to. Never exerts an iota of energy more than necessary. 

Its like you're in the mountains of Germany all over again, watching as he lies still and quiet, the rise and fall of his chest the only movement. 

He's so still, still like death and ice and you don’t think seventy years at the bottom of the ocean felt this cold. 

 

 

 

 

 

When he tells you about summertime in Brooklyn, in a bar on the fringes of some small town in Austria, he shifts slightly in his seat, barely noticeable except for the way his knee is pressing lightly against your thigh. 

You don't bother to swallow your smile. 


End file.
